


Easy

by ticktockclockwork



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Emotions, Fluff, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:07:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23442922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ticktockclockwork/pseuds/ticktockclockwork
Summary: It’s a slow thing, falling in love with the bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 49
Kudos: 402





	Easy

It’s a slow thing, falling in love with the bard. 

Despite what the world believes, Geralt does feel emotions and he feels them strongly. He was simply taught how to compartmentalize them. They are still there, he can just remove himself from them. It shows as indifference, most of the time, but it’s generally a matter of convenience. He feels things, and he does things, and they are rarely interconnected.

When it comes to Jaskier however, that truth falls apart. He feels things and he does things and he does things because he feels things. Decoupling himself from his emotions usually allows him a magnitude of self awareness others can’t understand, but when it comes to the bard, as it did for the witch, that self awareness leaves him dumb and foolish. He doesn’t like it, doesn’t enjoy the lack of control, and he finds himself making stupid, reckless decisions. 

Like now, as he throws his sword into the back of a bandit because he’s holding Jaskier at knifepoint and Geralt can’t get to him fast enough. It saves the bard but opens himself up to the dagger shoved into his side from the man on his left. He coughs out a grunt and turns to sink his fist into the others’ stomach, pulling the dagger out swiftly to use against its original wielder. It’s easy, in the end, given that these bandits are clearly outskilled, but Geralt can’t help but wonder why he was so stupid as he holds his waist and staggers towards the bard.

“Geralt!” Jaskier has disentangled himself from the second bandit, ignoring the sword in favor of rushing to the witcher’s side. He reaches out to touch the wound before yanking his hand away when Geralt snarls, the action causing his gut to clench and more blood to spill from between his fingers. “You foolish brute, you utter idiot. I was fine, I had that thieving cad completely handled.” He insists with a huff.

“Oh yeah?” Geralt grunts, reaching forward to slide a finger along the slice in Jaskier's doublet. It runs from his chest down to his hip and cuts down to his under clothes. If it had gone any deeper, it would have met flesh. “You’re welcome.” He shoves past Jaskier to retrieve his sword, wavering as he tries to pull it out. It releases with a sickening sound and he wipes off what he can of the gore on the body it originally came from before turning and limping back to their camp only a few paces away. The bandits must have been desperate. Their fire was still full and they hadn’t even bedded down for the night. There was no way they could have gotten the drop on the two. The only reason they managed what they had was because Jaskier was sure he could reason with them.

Jaskier sputters for a moment, looking down to the cut in his coat with a mourning better saved for another time. “I paid so much for this.” he complains and Geralt rolls his eyes from where he’s digging through his packs, looking for a medicinal kit. It’s clear he’s not supposed to hear this so he pretends he doesn’t and instead unearths a misshapen leather pouch filled with his supplies. This gathers Jaskier’s attention once more. “Oh! Wait, stop let me do that. You can’t stitch up your wounds for shit.”

“I do just fine without you, bard.” he grunts.

“Sure, but you do  _ better _ with my help, so let me. When you do it it gets infected or pinches up.” He takes the supplies from Geralt’s fingers before he can even protest and sits down decisively on Geralt’s bedroll, looking meaningfully at the space next to him.

Geralt has to breathe deeply through his nose to quell his irritation and it’s only because he can feel the motion push more blood from his abdomen does he finally relent.

“Attaboy.” Jaskier murmurs before looking swiftly contrite when Geralt throws him the stink eye once again. “Just lean back against the log and let me take a look.”

He works in relative, and surprising, quiet after that, humming to himself as he is known to do but otherwise keeping the chatter to a minimum. Geralt wonders if he’s starting to learn, starting to recognize Geralt’s tells for when he needs this. When his senses are heightened during a fight, and when the aftermath can be just as overwhelming. When his eyes stay normal but his heart races just a bit too fast and his nose flares at every new smell. When he’s in pain, as he is now, and is trying to hide it and finds the talking too distracting. He thinks Jaskier is learning these things and he wonders when that started.

He’s not the only one who  _ notices _ things, either. Geralt pays attention and learns and begins to understand things about the bard that only reveal themselves with time. Like how Jaskier likes to keep his hands clean except when he’s struck with inspiration and can’t put pen to paper fast enough. Or how he sleeps on his side to begin with but inevitably ends up on his stomach, arms and legs akimbo. He knows he likes raspberries but not blueberries, that he prefers wine to ale but will drink both, that he can grow a mustache but prefers not to, and that he broke his wrist once when he was a child after falling off his mare. When it's particularly wet and cold out an ache returns to it something fierce. 

He knows Jaskier talks to Roach when he thinks Geralt can’t hear, he knows he likes the summer sun, he knows if he weren’t worried about being teased, he would likely stop to pick the many wild flowers they pass in their travels. He knows many things about the bard and perhaps that’s where it begins, the love Geralt is fostering for the other, in the knowing. In the understanding and the seeing and the noticing and the knowing. It’s a slow thing, falling in love with the other. But Geralt thinks, maybe that’s where it began.

It’s a week later and Geralt is nearly healed from his run-in with the bandits but Jaskier is still grieving the loss of his coat. He talks about it to the farmer they beg a room off of, and the merchant they pass on the road. He complains about it to townspeople in the market when they stop for rations and resources, and he talks about it to the kikimora even as Geralt drives his sword through its belly. In fact, the only time he  _ doesn’t _ speak of it is when he’s asleep and Geralt isn’t entirely convinced he’s not also complaining about it in his dreams.

It goes on for so long that Geralt finally has enough and after the bard has fallen asleep he pulls the jacket out of Jaskier’s bag and tries to stitch it himself. Despite what Jaskier thinks about his wound stitching talents, he does have a steady hand and manages to work the slash closed. The bandit’s knife was sharp, which would have been bad for Jaskier but is good for the doublet given that the cut is clean and a bit easier to mend. Geralt sits by firelight working the thread through the fabric, trying to hide his stitches as best he can. When he’s done the fabric pulls and wrinkles a bit but it’s the best he can manage and he hopes, at least, it’ll shut the other up.

He forgets about it by morning, too busy hunting some game for their morning meal but when he returns to camp carrying two hares he sees Jaskier has found his midnight mending and is examining it closely. Geralt bristles as he watches Jaskier hold it up to the light then tilt it sideways. “If you don’t like it then toss it but I’m sick of hearing you moan about it everywhere we go.” He has a hard time keeping the gravel out of his voice but he tries, dumping the hares near the fire for the moment while he goes to gather his skinning knife.

“Did you do this?” Jaskier asks and Geralt doesn’t recognize his tone of voice so he bristles defensively even more.

“Who else would have done it, bard? Wood nymphs?”

“Are wood nymphs real?”

“No.”

“Too bad. But not the point. Did you mend my clothes last night? Or have I just been an idiot for awhile? And don’t say it’s both.”

Geralt snaps his mouth shut from that and looks away with a smirk. 

Jaskier makes a face at him but continues. “Well…. Thank you. I didn’t think you’d noticed how it bothered me.” When he spots the disbelieving look Geralt throws his way he back-pedals a bit. “Alright, yes, perhaps I have been a bit…. Vocal about my displeasure. But this was a very expensive, one-of-a-kind pieces made from-”

“The finest silks this side of Aretuza, yes you’ve said. Multiple times.” Geralt stands and picks the hares up, taking them to a tree to hang them. He begins making careful cuts along the fur then with one quick pull, skins the pelt off clean. “I apologize if it isn’t good enough for your silken sensibilities but it is what I could manage.” He begins working on cleaning out the carcass, saving everything he can and tossing the rest in a small pile to be used later for bait.

Jaskier is quiet long enough that Geralt looks over to see what’s wrong. The bard is still looking at the stitching and holds it up to the light once more and it’s enough to make Geralt growl. “Alright, enough. I get it. You don’t need to make a point of showing off how bad it is. Like I said, if you don’t like it, toss it in the fire.”

“Not good enough? Geralt, this is some of the finest stitching I've seen in a long time, especially from someone who isn’t a tailor or seamstress. Where did you learn to do this?” 

He seems genuine enough that Geralt lowers his hackles but he still feels as if he might be getting teased. “It is too expensive to replace clothing and to not know how to mend your own clothes correctly. If I cannot afford to buy new clothing then I also cannot afford to fix them wrong. It would be worse than just leaving them ripped. Mending clothes is not something I have the luxury of ignoring so I learned the proper way. Did you think I paid someone to do this?” He motions to his own shirt which has a multitude of tears and rips in the, admittedly, well made fabric. They’ve all been stitched up, some better than others.

“No, I honestly assumed you bought it that way.”

“You thought I bought my shirt pre-torn?” Geralt turns to look at him.   
  
“You never know. It might come into style.” Jaskier shrugs but comes over to push Geralt’s arm out of the way so he can look closer at his shirt. “What I want to know is why this one looks like a child fixed it and why mine looks professionally done?” 

Geralt bristles again and knocks his hand away so he can turn back to the rabbit. “Sometimes I must decide if the thread would be better used for myself or for my clothing.” His voice is low and there’s a dangerous rumble on it that only comes out when he touches on the more unsavory realities of his job. Jaskier doesn’t poke into that one and instead falls quiet once more. Out of the corner of his eye Geralt can see the bard running his thumb over the fabric, a crease to his brow.

“Well… thank you, Geralt. This means a lot. I am… I apologize for complaining. I will be more… aware. Next time.” 

Geralt grunts in acknowledgment and finishes cleaning his kills, leaving Jaskier to whatever he was doing that morning before he found the clothes. They eat quietly and though Geralt is sure the other is going to strike up in conversation at any moment, Jaskier remains mute. He seems almost contemplative and Geralt catches him now and again looking in his direction. He’s quick to look away at any indication that he’s been caught but Geralt notices anyways. It’s… unnerving, in a good way. In a way that makes Geralt think that maybe he did something right. 

They part ways two towns over and Geralt is less surprised than he should be to find that he’s reluctant to see Jaskier go. Jaskier is being called home for his family, the death of some cousin or other, and though he is also reluctant to leave Geralt’s side, it’s a summons he cannot refuse. There will be a will reading and an estate division and he needs to be present if he is to get any of it. Geralt says nothing to the distribution of wealth and wouldn’t hold it against him anyways. He’s no fool to the machinations of high society and not everyone could or should live a life like his own. 

He will miss him, though, and does just a day after they part. He’s on the road again, and it’s quiet. Pleasant at first but then lonesome, as it always is when Jaskier and he part ways. He knows sure enough that they will see each other again. He doesn’t believe in destiny but he does believe in Jaskier, believes him when he says he will see him again as soon as he can.

This turns out to be the next spring, nearly eight months later. Geralt’s grown accustomed to the quiet again and it doesn’t bother him as it did. Or perhaps it does both him, but he can remove himself from that. Loneliness is not a hard thing to relearn. He’s in a small town near Ellander finishing up a werewolf hunt when he receives a letter by magic. Jaskier must have paid a pretty penny to a skilled magician to send him a letter in this manner, but as Geralt is saddling Roach and loading up her packs, he sees a flash of light to his left and turns to find a spectral hand reaching out to give him a letter.

When he doesn’t accept it fast enough the hand flings the card at his chest then disappears, leaving Geralt to drop his pack in favor of catching the letter lest it fall into the mud near Roach’s stall. He recognizes the handwriting on the envelope immediately and raises a brow as he opens it.

As expected, it’s from Jaskier. He’s wrapped up business and cannot stand his family a moment longer and was hoping he could meet Geralt in La Valette where he's been invited to play for a royals’ induction into knighthood. He assures Geralt that he won’t have to play bodyguard and instead hopes to see him in a tavern by the end of the month so they can continue their travels together. It’s out of the way for Geralt who was intending to continue south but it isn’t hard to make up his mind so that he heads west instead when he leaves town. He finds a bit of work on the way but otherwise arrives at La Valette when requested, just two days before the end of the month.

It’s still on the cold side of spring so when he comes into the castle city he’s wrapped in his furs and heavy cloak. This place is impressive in its militarian grandeur and he will give them credit where credit is due. The citadel is beautiful, but the fortifications make him nervous and he can’t help but be on edge when he arrives at the tavern where Jaskier is supposed to be. He ties Roach up and gives her a pat then heads inside. The tavern is noisy until he walks in, then a hush falls over the crowd. It’s not unfamiliar to him. He knows how he looks dressed up as he is, his stature and cut especially intimidating when cloaked in black and lined in furs. The silence stretches for a long moment while he stands in the doorway waiting to see if he will be thrown out, but it’s the melodic voice from the back that cuts through. 

“Witcher!” It’s said with such exuberance and excitement that the tavern goers forget to be nervous in their confusion. They turn to look at Jaskier as he clambers over his bench, a little intoxicated. He skip-jogs over to Geralt and claps both his shoulders in his hands, letting his eyes rove over his figure. “My, don’t you strike a terrifying image! When was the last time you’ve slept in a proper bed? You look like you could kill a bear at any moment!”

“Jaskier, good to see you.” He can’t help but smile as he slaps the bard on the back and pulls him into a hug. “Have you tapped into the reserves already, I was under the impression we would be off at dawn?” He raises a brow and reaches up to pull down his hood, following as Jaskier’s eyes scan his whole face. It makes his heart skip to be under such scrutiny but when Jaskier has had his fill, he looks him in the eyes and gives a playful shrug. 

“What can I say, Geralt. When the libations are offered, who am I to refuse?” He returns to his table as Geralt veers for the bar, making his excuses for departure from whatever companions he’s made here. Geralt orders an ale and it’s only by Jaskier’s enthusiasm that the bartender serves him at all, which, fair, that’s nothing new. 

When Geralt turns again, Jaskier has sidled up next to him, taking up the stool to his right, and resting his elbow on the bar. He’s sipping from a pint of something that smells vaguely of wine, and he’s red in the cheeks, smiling at the other as he looks all over him again. “You look well, Geralt, despite the menacing furs. How long has it been now? Two months? Three?”

“Eight.” Geralt corrects him immediately and just barely catches the pleased and secretive smile Jaskier tucks away.

“Ah, yes, eight, of course. Far too long. I see you got my letter. Shame on you for not replying, I had to come here on sheer faith, trusting you to show up.” His admonishment falls a little flat as he takes a sip of his drink, smiling around the rim of his mug.

Geralt raises a brow and tips his head. “And have I disappointed, bard?”

Jaskier hums into his cup and it reverberates nicely, deepening the sound into something that sits warm in Geralt’s belly. “Of course not, dear friend. Never. But I must confess, I’m not sure I'll be ready to leave by morning.” 

“No shit.” Geralt snorts, tipping his head in thanks to the barman who brings him his drink. “I take it you have a room here? Or are you staying with the royals?” 

At this Jaskier grimaces and shakes his head. “No, certainly not. They pay well enough but they’re all dead set on killing each other and I grew tired of being suspicious of what might be in my drink. No, I’d rather have a man kill me while looking into my eyes, rather than over the rim of a goblet, thank you very much.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Geralt agrees, leaning with a heavy sigh against the bartop and taking a long drag off his ale. “Well I’m heading south and I will be leaving by morning with or without you. I assume you’ve got a room here?” He looks around and though he can afford a drink he knows right away he can’t afford a room. Even if the barman allowed him one. 

“I do. Do you need a place to stay for the evening? Honestly, Geralt, the bed is large enough for the both of us and I can even have a bath brought up. You certainly need it.” Before Geralt can even argue, Jaskier is waving down the barman and putting in his request. He slides a generous tip across the tabletop which smooths over the last of the barman's reluctance. 

“I take it your business with the family ended fortuitously?” He prods, curious though he doesn’t mean to be. This is one aspect of Jaskier’s life he doesn’t know much about and though it often doesn’t matter, it’s clear the business of a dead cousin ended with quite the windfall for the bard, if he’s throwing around that kind of money in a place like this.

Jaskier’s smile turns wicked and he plunks his tankard down to lean closer to the other. “Geralt, my family is a rats nest of incompetant fools and you should have seen the looks on their faces when their fancy unwed bard of a child inherited the largest chunk of cousin Francine’s estate. It didn’t matter that I spent all my summers at her house learning the fine art of musical composition, or that I was the only one of the family who went to her husband’s funeral. Oh no, it was simply absurd that I would inherit the majority of her wealth but there it was, laid out in her handwriting and verified by the arbiter of her estate.” He leans back and looks absolutely triumphant. 

“To my dear cousin Julian Alfred Pankratz I leave my entire estate and summer cottage and all such belongings therein. As well, I leave him seventy five percent of my accumulated wealth which will be distributed to him over his lifetime so that he may live in such comfort as he brought me in my final years. Of the remaining twenty five percent, ten will go to Oxenfurt to support their musical arts programs, and the other fifteen shall be divided equally amongst all others present at my will reading. I know this decision will bring some discomfort to those in attendance but as you did not come to me in my time of need, I do not see why I should go to you in yours. Julian, my darling bird, I love you. Keep singing.” He recites each bit with so much satisfaction and happiness that Geralt cannot help but bark out a laugh.

“How quickly did you have to get out of there?”

“Oh I was making my exit before the paper even hit the desk. I think my uncle would have throttled me to death if he’d had the wherewithal to grab me before I escaped. I finalized all the paperwork with her lawyer away from the family and only returned to say my goodbyes when it was too late to change anything. It took quite some time, all the running around but in the end there was nothing they could do. I foresee some bids to undo the will, but they’ll have quite the challenge on their hands. She made sure nothing could undo that and I hope it stays. Not so much for me, but to stick it to them.” He downs the rest of his drink then calls to the barman. “A round for the house, on me!” The room erupts in cheers and Geralt can only shake his head. 

“Do they know you’re spending all their money at a dirty tavern in La Valette?”

“It’s  _ my _ money, and of course they do. I sent them a cask of this absolutely atrocious ale as a consolation for their loss.” He grins and Geralt finds himself smiling in return. Jaskier might be magnanimous and kind in the majority of his life but his family has caused him grief ever since he decided to be a bard. Geralt does not fault him for behaving as he is now. Plus, vindictive glee is a good look on him.

One round turns into two turns into three and somewhere in there he takes up his lute and breaks into song. Some are of their travels but many are not. Some are just songs from the region, sea shanties and farmers odes, raunchy diddies, and uproarious jives. It’s astounding that he can remember them all with as drunk as he is but he manages nonetheless. It’s near dawn when Geralt has to carry him back to his room - their room - for the night and it’s clear that neither of them are going anywhere today. 

The bath he had ordered has long since gone cold which is a disappointment but nothing he can’t deal with. He focuses on the bard first, stripping him from his outer clothes and putting him to bed in his underthings, leaving him to fuss and fight with the blankets until his body gives up and he falls completely asleep. He’s got one leg under the blankets and half his shirt rucked up but he seems content to sleep that way for the night. Geralt had dropped his things off earlier in the night and now takes his time unpacking his necessities. He uses a few rounds of igni to warm up the bath to a tolerable temperature before quickly washing himself off. He’d prefer warmer waters but he’s feeling the journey and the long night of festivities and more than anything else he wants for sleep.

He’s satisfied that Jaskier won’t harass him in the morning for his smell now so he gets out and dries off, dressing in his own sleep clothes before getting into bed. Jaskier was being generous about the size of it earlier - it barely fits one, let alone one and a witcher - but this wouldn’t be the first time they rested in close company. He waits a moment before getting comfortable, allowing Jaskier’s unconscious mind to register his warm body temperature and turn to press against him. There’s nothing Geralt can do to avoid this, short of shoving him from the bed, and if he’s being honest with himself (which he often is at this hour of the night) he finds comfort in the press of the other man against his side. He allows Jaskier to bury close, grimacing only when a cold foot is shoved under his calf, before rearranging the blankets over them both and closing his eyes to sleep. 

Jaskier doesn’t rouse until late afternoon and then it’s only to empty his stomach contents and chug a pitcher of water. He looks blearily to where Geralt is reorganizing his packs, makes a face for reasons Geralt cannot fathom and returns to bed to sleep through the hangover he’s surely got. It’s fine. Geralt has no immediate plans and despite his threat the evening before, he’s content to take some time to rest before they’re back on the road again.

The sun has set when Jaskier wakes again and it’s a slower process this time. Geralt only notices because his soft snores have stopped. When he looks to the bed Jaskier is watching him, hooded eyes barely clear, but fixed on him nonetheless. He thinks he should say something, should break the silence with a quip or a grunt, but instead he just holds the others gaze, his hands stilling in his lap. He blinks and Jaskier does too; he tilts his head and Jaskier turns his more into the pillow. When he smiles just a touch, giving a raise of his brow, Jaskier grins and finally looks away, cheeks flushed. 

“Hungry?” Geralt asks, though he knows he will be. He brings over a plate with some hard cheese and bread, some fruit and a bit of water, easy food for Jaskier’s uneasy stomach. The bard pushes himself to sit up in bed and takes the food, digging into it immediately. He says something around a mouthful of bread but Geralt can’t understand him.

“I thought you were leaving this morning, with or without me?” Jaskier repeats once he’s swallowed and has taken a gulp of water.

Geralt snorts and shakes his head. “I was promised a hot bath and I have yet to receive one.”

That wrinkles Jaskier’s brow as he tries to recount the events of the previous evening. Geralt isn’t sure where his memories end but they clearly don’t include returning to the room. “A hot bath would be fucking wonderful right now. I feel like shit.”

“You look like shit.”

“Har har, thank you so much witcher.” He picks up a berry and lobs it vaguely in Geralt’s direction. When he waits expectantly, Geralt stands with a deep sigh and goes to put in the request. It’s only when he’s partway down the stairs that he wonders at how easy that was. 

He really does have it bad.

Jaskier is still eating when the bath water is brought up. It’s clear he’s nursing a headache but the nausea has passed so while he’s moving slow, at least he’s moving. Geralt strips without preamble and slips into the water, letting out a deep breath at the feel of the warm water on his cool skin. He sinks as deep as he can go, which is a generous amount for a tub in a tavern like this, but it’s enough to come up to his collar. When he reaches back to pull the leather strap out of his hair, he finds Jaskier is already there, hand’s bumping into his in the process. 

“Let me. You took care of me last night. Let me return the favor.” He seems almost shy, though he’s trying to hide it behind a cheeky smile. Geralt wants to protest but he’s finding that he doesn’t have the strength to. Or the heart. He likes when Jaskier does this for him and he doesn’t feel like fighting that right now. When he nods just a little, Jaskier moves forward and continues. He undoes the strap and then goes to retrieve a comb from his own pack. Geralt takes the moment to dunk his head under water, scrubbing what he can out of it before resurfacing again. Jaskier takes up residence behind him then gets to work detangling his hair, running the combs through it before working the knots out with his nimble fingers. It’s meditative, the methodical process of comb, fingers, tug, release, comb, fingers, tug, release and as they continue in silence Geralt’s eyes droop. He’s not tired but this is relaxing and he finds his mind wandering. 

He thinks of the skill those fingers possess, able to pull harmonies and song from nearly all forms of instruments. He thinks of those hands working salves and pastes for him, cleaning gear, and making camp. He thinks of them as they do up buttons and ties on elaborate clothing, as they pass him bottles from his pack, as they gather berries and grasses to feed to roach. He follows the memories and the patterns and motions over and over and over in his mind until they move from memories to something else, something in between. 

He thinks of those fingers wielding a sword, gripping reins, touching his throat. He thinks of them moving over scars, over ribs, over his chest, exploring, making memories where there weren’t any before. He thinks of the callouses he knows exists and he wonders when he memorized those of all things and if he weren’t so god damned relaxed he’d possibly be worrying right now about how bad he’s really got it. 

He thinks, perhaps, he’s not the only one.

Jaskier finishes and Geralt can only tell that he took his time by the fact that the temperature of the bath has dropped. When he removes his fingers from his hair Geralt stirs, lifting his head and looking around. He meets the others eyes for another drawn out moment before it’s Jaskier who breaks this time and begins to undress.

“Warm that up, will you. I refuse to take any cold baths until I absolutely have no other choice.” He tosses his shirt to the side and Geralt thinks he shows off his back on purpose because Geralt’s eyes linger and Jaskier let’s him watch longer than should otherwise be necessary. When he goes to strip his pants, Geralt turns away and uses his focus to cast igni in rapid succession, heating the water until it’s steaming. When Jaskier joins him in the tub he does so with a bone deep moan, his skin immediately turning pink from the heat. “Melitele’s tits, Geralt, why aren’t we always doing this?” His voice drifts as he sinks as low as he can go in the water, family the other, knees poking out next to Geralt. 

“It’s a waste of magic.” Geralt murmurs as his hand dips under the water and rests on Jaskier’s ankle. He thumbs along the tendon on the inside of his foot and delights in the full body tremor that runs through the others body. 

“This isn’t a waste of anything.” The bard replies, tipping to rest his head on Geralt’s foot when the other lifts it to prop on the edge of the basin. He lifts a wet hand to push the hair from his face then blinks open to hold Geralt’s gaze again. 

Something has changed between them, small but not insignificant. Permission granted, from one side then the other, an allowance made though never declared. Geralt is happy for the silent agreement as words have never been his strong suit and it solidifies the knowledge that Jaskier knows him, understands him, gets him enough to realize he can have this without needing to ask. 

He’s afraid if they talk about it, it’ll all come apart, so if they just allow things to be, he thinks they’ll be alright. 

His hand slides up Jaskier’s leg, from his ankle to the back of his knee. “Aren’t you rich enough to just buy baths wherever you go now?” He teases, running his thumb along the soft skin there, gaze following the blush that’s coloring Jaskier’s neck and moving up to his cheeks.

“Not anymore, spent it all on terrible ale last night.” He replies with a languorous smile, biting the side of his lip and letting his eyes close.

Geralt snorts and moves his hand to the other ankle, gently nudging the inside until Jaskier moves. He readjusts slowly, allowing the others knees to fall open, watching as Jaskier keeps his eyes closed still, though it seems an effort. He wonders if he does it because he’s afraid this will be a trick, or if he just enjoys his imaginings better. “That’s too bad. I only keep you around for your gold.” 

Jaskier’s smile is a slow blooming thing, his head tipping back on a small gasp as Geralt grips both ankles just to see what he does. “And here I thought you kept me around for my looks.” His eyes finally open and they’re darker than Geralt has seen them before.

“For your cooking, certainly. Don’t know about your looks.” He tugs and Jaskier lurches forward, hissing through clenched teeth as he teeters up then tips forward to his knees. He splashes water out of the tub all around them but when he sinks down steady he’s on his knees with his thighs bracketed on either side of Geralt’s waist. He’s breathing  _ heavy _ now and has to lean forward to grip the wood behind Geralt’s head, bringing them even closer than before. Still, the only points of contact are Geralt’s hands on the back of his knees. 

“Geralt-” He whispers when those hands start trailing upwards. There’s a brief moment of uncertainty in Jaskier’s eyes and Geralt isn’t sure how to reassure him without saying it out loud. He tries to tell him anyways, that it’s okay, that he’s not playing any games, that this desire isn’t new. But eventually he just tilts his head to the side as his hands rest on Jaskier’s hips and he eases him forward into his lap.

“I suppose it’s not just your gold.” He murmurs, eyes trailing Jaskier’s tongue as it darts out to wet his dry lips. 

“Oh yeah? Then what is it you keep me around for?"

Geralt lifts wet fingers and runs them along his bottom lip. “I suppose your singing is tolerable as well.” 

“Well at least it’s tolerable…” He whispers in reply, nipping at the pads of Geralt’s fingers. 

“Perhaps more than tolerable.” 

“Only perhaps?” Jaskier slides his hands from the basin down to Geralt’s shoulders and grips them tight, calloused fingers digging into muscle. He uses the leverage to rock their hips together and it's Geralt’s turn to shudder, eyes falling closed. “Surely you can do better than that?” 

“I suppose… I enjoy it.”

“You suppose.”

“But only when you’re drunk.”

“Geralt!” And the spell is broken as Jaskier lets out an indignant squawk and Geralt has to hold his hips again to keep him from leaving in a huff. He’s laughing as the other lets out a litany of complaints, pressing wet hands into Geralt’s face in a weak attempt at pushing him away. “You ruined a perfectly good moment we were having because you are too- too  _ stubborn _ to admit you enjoy my singing and here I am-”

Geralt leans up to take Jaskier’s face in both his hands and the bard immediately falls quiet. His arms find purchase on his shoulders once again before sliding around his neck more comfortably. When Geralt closes his eyes, he feels Jaskier follow suit, the bard’s lashes brushing against Geralt’s thumbs where they touch the corners of his eyes. “Geralt. What is this?” He asks quietly, voice wavering just a bit in uncertainty.

“I don’t know.” Geralt admits, dragging his thumbs along his lashes, then cheeks, then down to his lips again. “What do you want it to be?” 

“Real.” Jaskier replies immediately, biting his lip right after in embarrassment. 

“Does it feel real?”

“No.”

Geralt leans in and brushes his lips across Jaskier’s. “And now?”

“No.” There’s a pause. “Do it again, just in case.”

Geralt smiles.

It’s a slow thing, falling in love with the bard. It’s borne of travel and stories, songs and time. It blossoms in the knowing, and blooms into color in the warm water of the tub. Geralt couldn’t tell you the first time he felt it. All he knows is that he sees it when he spies his stitching in the others’ clothes, feels it when Jaskier runs the comb through his hair. He hears it in the songs he sings along the road and knows it, most of all, when they’re together, voices hushed, hearts as one.

**Author's Note:**

> This was self indulgent. I hope you enjoyed it anyways. Come follow me on tumblr @ [ticktockclockwork](https://ticktockclockwork.tumblr.com)


End file.
